“You’d be doing me a huge favor.”

  It was interesting, the difference in tone a season could make.

  “I know you’re probably swamped right now, but the publicity would be huge for the dojo.”

  I had to hold back a scoff. “Why would you possibly need publicity? You’re literally the best game in town. Nowhere else even comes close.”

  “That’s—“ Sharon, one of the Techne Dojo’s more experienced staffers, hesitated on her reply. Yet more evidence that something was deeply wrong. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d ever seen the wizened instructor unsure about something.

  “Ms. Kiyal, what’s going on? Has something happened to Master Raul?” that was the only thing I could come up with on such short notice. The veteran master was the backbone of the Techne Dojo, and if something were to happen to him, or he were to retire, then the facility probably would need all of the positive attention it could get.

  “No, he’s the same as always,” Sharon bit out, which sounded like a good thing to me, but wasn’t by the sound of her tone. She paused for a few seconds, and then levered a huge sigh. “Alyssa, you’re a smart girl, right? Can you keep a secret?”

  Those two didn’t seem correlated to me, but the answer to both was, “Yes,” so that’s what I went with.

  “Okay, look. The dojo seems fine on the surface, but things behind the scenes are a bit rockier. You did spectacularly this year, of course, as did a few of our other students, but the majority are performing worse than they did last year, which was worse than the year before that. The difference isn’t massive, but there is a trend.”

  “Upswings and downswings happen though, right?” I countered. “It’s not like things are really falling apart, or FSBC would be having a field day with it.”

  Sharon hissed. “Those Vullaby do know something is up, I’m sure of it. They’re biding their time, waiting for the right opportunity. Clearly, they couldn’t swoop in this season, since you did so well, but in the next couple of years, things might be different.”

  “Or they could be better,” I shot back. “You’re still the most famous institution in the city. That has to count for something.”

  “It does with the public, but they’re not the ones holding our purse-strings.”

  I felt my eyebrows climb into my scalp. “You’re losing funding?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  “Been losing funding, every year,” Sharon confirmed, her words bitter. “There’s been a big push recently towards private gyms and corporate-sponsored competitors. The big companies have been doing a lot of lobbying, saying that their way is better, and that the city can save money by Scythering our budget. Hell, I read in the news that there was a bill on the floor to cut public training institutions altogether, though it fell through, thank the Guardians.”

  That was, well, it wasn’t crazy, exactly, but it did seem odd. “So wait, the argument is that because the dojo is doing worse than private options, the city should fund you less?”

  “Apparently,” Sharon growled. “And judging by what we’re getting allocated next quarter, that argument is working. We’re going to need to tighten our belts and raise our admission costs, which is going to hurt our enrollment. Hence, the need for some good publicity.”

  “The whole thing seems sort of, self-fulfilling, doesn’t it?” I asked, as I ran things through my head. Less funding meant worse results, worse results meant less funding, it seemed like a race to the bottom.

  “That’s what I keep telling Master Raul, but he’s sure that this is just a phase. That things will ‘all turn out for the better if we just keep at it.’” The irritated woman did an impressive job mimicking the head instructor’s gruff tone. “He’s missing the writing on the wall, and the rest of the staff and I are stuck scurrying around in the background, trying to keep the dojo from falling apart around our heads.”

  The idea of the dojo going under made me feel a bit sick to my stomach, and not just because they were my sponsor and I still trained there twice a week. The Techne Dojo was an institution, one of the oldest organizations in the city. The idea of something happening to it seemed laughable, but Sharon wasn’t given to hysterics. If she was sure that something was wrong, I was inclined to believe her. “Alright, I’ll participate in the tag-tournament. It’s the weekend of the thirtieth, right? I’ll make sure that I don’t have any matches scheduled for that day.”

  “Thank you so much Alyssa. This will be a breeze for you, I promise. You’re the only first-year dojo or gym-trainee from Techne who made it into the Green League this year, so the rest of the competition will be way easier than your current competitors.”

  “As long as my tag partner can pull their weight,” I retorted. “Speaking of which, who am I partnered up with?” I didn’t pay much attention to how the other sponsored competitors from my dojo were doing, but there was a chance I’d at least recognize their name.

  “Bertrand Crall, and his Machop, Champ.”

  Unfortunately, that was one of the names that I knew.

  -

  “Madaka.”

  “Parson.”

  “Actually, it’s Crall now.”

  I’d heard that from Sharon, but forgotten it in the heat of the moment. I hadn’t seen Bert at all for the past four months. Not since he and his cronies, Will and Gretchen, had assaulted my best friend after he and his partner lost to her in a back-alley-battle.

  Puberty had come in swinging on the teen, and I only recognized him because of the Machop close on his heels. The Bert of six months ago had been short, pimply, and a little bit overweight. The Bert of today… was actually even more pimply, but he’d shot up in height, now a few inches taller than me. I doubt he’d technically lost weight, but the schoolyard bully was gangly now, rather than chubby. His wardrobe had changed too, going from athletic shorts and stained t-shirts to a pair of well-fitting jeans, and a muscle-shirt that he was pulling off reasonably well, in-spite of how poorly-suited it was for the current weather..

  “Congratulations on getting selected for the tournament,” I told him stiffly. There was no love lost between us, that was for sure, but I was stuck with him for the duration of the event, so there wasn’t much point in being needlessly antagonistic.

  “Just don’t get in our way,” the surly teen replied with an eye roll.

  “That’s our line,” I growled. Pikachu hopped up on my shoulder to back me up. She squeaked out her own retort, her impression of Bert no more positive than mine.

  Bert scoffed, and turned away from us, only to be stopped by the sight of his own partner, arms crossed and expression disapproving. “Cho-cho-chop!” The short Fighting-type intoned, shaking his head back and forth.

  I had a hard time understanding Pokémon that weren’t Pikachu, so I wasn’t exactly sure what Machop was trying to say, but whatever it was, Bert didn’t like hearing it.

  “C’mon Champ, do I really gotta?” the teen whined. “You see how she is. Why should I even bother asking?”

  “Machop. Chop, Machop!” Another emphatic shake of the head.

  “It hasn’t even been that long. We’ll run into them again. We can wait until then,” Bert tried to bargain, but his partner wasn’t having it.

  The grey-skinned Fighting-type let out a full-chested cry, and raised both of his fists in a fighting-stance.

  “Oh, it’s gonna be like that, huh? Fine, we’ll do it your way.” To my surprise, Bert squared up as well, hunching over in the wrestler’s crouch.

  A few seconds passed, and then, in response to some unseen signal, the two collided, Bert scrambling to try to get ahold of his Machop while the Fighting-type lashed out with fists and feet, though no actual attacks, as far as I could tell.

  I stared at the confusing tableau, more than a little nonplussed, and I felt Pikachu worry her paws on my shoulder a bit, equally confused. Part of me wanted to intervene, but it’s not like I really cared about Bert’s wellbeing, other than as my tag partner for today’s event, and he and his partner sure seemed like they did this exact interaction with some amount of regularity.

  “Just give it a couple of minutes, they’ll be done before too long,” I heard someone behind me.

  I turned, and found myself confronted by another of my former classmates. Gretchen, an irritable girl in the same grade as Fe and I, was often found in Bert’s company. Her and another boy named Will could be characterized as the gangly bully’s lackeys, and I’d exchanged maybe ten words with her over my entire life.

  And again, six months proved to be a longer time than I’d given it credit for. Without the Kakuna cradled in her arms or the presence of Bert, I wouldn’t have been able to place her. The Gretchen in my memory was a hunched, Impidimp-like creature. Overly-long black hoodies and ankle-length skirts characterized her wardrobe, and a pair of crooked glasses mostly blocked any view of her eyes.

  The Gretchen I was confronted with now bore little resemblance to that remembrance. She was still scrawny, but her height had shot up like Bert’s, and she was only a couple of centimeters shorter than me now. The oversized jumper had been replaced with a stylish parka left zipped open to reveal a crop top, and the pleated skirt was similarly gone, a sporty skort in its place, reinforced with thermal tights.

  Honestly, I was starting to feel a bit self-conscious about my wardrobe. Maybe I should invite Fe to do some shopping next weekend? Did I have the budget for that? There should be a pretty nice prize reward for this tournament since it wasn’t part of the official league, so maybe that could work?

  “You’re looking well,” Gretchen’s words broke me out of my considerations.

  “You too,” I said on reflex, though, now that I looked at her, I was considering retracting my statement. With her glasses gone, I was finally able to notice something. It hadn’t been her spectacles that were crooked, but rather her nose. The glasses had just sat oddly on them, and without them in the way, the distinctive evidence of a once-broken nose was far more evident.

  The deep shadows under her eyes, inexpertly buried under concealer, were another indicator, as were the numerous plasters wrapped around her fingers.

  I realized with a start that I’d been staring, and hurriedly tried to change the subject. “So do they do this often?” I nodded towards the wrestling pair. Bert seemed to have the advantage right now, but a quick jab from Champ forced the teen to release his hold and back off, resetting them to neutral.

  “A few times a week. Champ has taken it on himself to be Bert’s conscience, and he’s finding it a full-time job,” the girl informed me with a sardonic grin. “Like I said, they’ll be done in just a bit. Bert needs to ask for a favor, but he was trying to Torchic out, so Champ’s putting him back on track.”

  “Ok,” I said like that made any sense. “I see your Weedle has evolved, congratulations.”

  That got an actual smile out of the girl, which revealed a few more missing teeth than I’d usually expect someone our age to have. “Thanks Alyssa. Fierce here should be evolving again soon. His weight is really good, and his shell is starting to dull. He’s so excited to be able to battle again.”

  An assenting buzzing came from the chrysalis-like Pokémon held in the teenager’s arms. Fierce’s eyes lived up to his name, the shining orbs lit with an inner fire that spoke to the truth of his partner’s words.

  “Well, I hope everything goes well,” I told her, and found that I meant it. I definitely didn’t have any great affection for Gretchen, and I’d been sore at her for enabling Bert’s behavior over the past couple of years, but that girl seemed so far away from the teen in front of me that it was hard to reconcile the two.

  We lapsed into a stiff silence, as the scuffle played out next to us. Champ now had the momentum, his jabs and kicks forcing Bert on to the defensive, the teenager unable to mount an effective counter-offensive.

  After a few more moments, he held up his hands in defeat. “Okay Champ, you win,” he told the grinning Fighting-type in between heaving breaths. “I’ll ask her, okay?”

  “Chop, Machop!” The grey-skinned Pokémon nodded emphatically.

  Bert levered a huge sigh, and turned around to face me. “Look, Alyssa,” he hesitated, as if searching for what to say. After a few seconds, he took a fortifying breath, and started again. “I know that we haven’t always gotten on, but I’ve always respected how freaking hard you go at stuff. You and Fione both.”

  I felt a little flare of rage at her name on his lips, and some of it must have shown, because he held up a placating hand.

  “Look, I was a real jerk to her at the start of the summer. I was going through some stuff,” he hesitated again, only to be spurred on by another ‘Chop!’ from his partner. “But that’s no excuse. I almost fucked up real bad, and you kept me from doing that, so thanks,” he took a deep breath, “and if you’re willing to do me a favor I’d really appreciate it if you could help me figure out a way to apologize. To Fione, I mean.”

  The request was beyond just ‘out of my expectations.’ It was out-of-bounds from what I thought should have even been possible. It was up there with asking me out on a date as far as things I could have imagined, and instinctively, I wanted to tell him No. To not-so-kindly inform him that he could fuck right off and leave my best fiend well alone.

  I almost did, on the spot, except for a memory, flashing in my mind’s eye. Of my best friend’s face, after I’d shouted at her for defending herself, for protecting her honor, and that of her partners’.

  I took a breath, and let it out. As much as I wanted to dismiss Bert’s request out of hand, that wouldn’t be fair to him. Not that I cared all that much about that. No, the thing that mattered here was that it wouldn’t be fair to Fe.

  “Look, I can’t make any promises,” I told the boy. “Let’s win this tournament, and talk about it after, okay?”

  Something flashed in Bert’s eyes, something I didn’t know him well enough to place. “Sounds like a plan.”

  -

  The fights were pretty boring, all told.

  They might have been interesting, if Bert and Champ had been worse battlers. A little bit of deadweight on our side would have at least made things interesting for Pikachu and I. A real two-versus one could have held some level of challenge for us.

  As it was, the four of us ran circles around the competition.

  A tag battle was a particular type of Ferrum battle that had mostly fallen out of favor in modern times. Instead of a full-on two versus two, a tag battle worked by having the fighters swap off mid-fight, one jumping in to replace the other at a signal from the trainers. Well-practiced tag-battlers could maintain each other’s juggles or combos, interrupt the same from their opponents, and even release devastating combination attacks. The main rule to follow was that you could only swap every ten seconds, and only one Pokémon from each team was allowed to use moves at a time.

  Keeping track of all of that wasn’t an easy skillset to develop, and the level of coordination required took a measure of dedication and skill that wasn’t really in the cards for the majority of battlers today.

  The competition was for first-year dojo graduates only, and that meant baby trainers and baby Pokémon. Each dojo sent their best students, as did the few private gyms and trainers who were given entry, but honestly, the field was mostly weaker than I’d fought in the promotion tournament. They certainly weren’t as tough as the professionals I was battling in the Green League.

  And again, Bert and Champ were able to do an impressive job pulling their weight. We’d swap off leading depending on who ended the last battle, and our partners were just as ready to jump-in on signal as we were. They even caught our juggle once, during one of the later rounds, which I hadn’t been expecting from them at all.

  All of which meant we had a fairly easy run into the finals, where there was only one more battle standing between us and total victory.

  I was reclining on a couch, running my hand through the coarse fur on Pikachu’s back, when someone pushed their way into our shared waiting room.

  Bert and I both looked up as Gretchen closed the door behind her, seemingly in a hurry, before she knelt down, and pulled a notebook out of her backpack.

  “What’s up, Gee?” Bert asked, as the teen hurried over to us. “Is everything alright?”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I was running around, doing a bit of research, just in case, and I figured that you guys might want to see this,” she answered, opening her notebook on a table set in one corner of the room and beckoning us over.

  Bemused, I followed Bert and Champ over to the table, Pikachu on my heels. The five of us clustered around the open notebook, which was filled with impressively organized scrawl. “Wait a second,” something struck me as I looked at Gretchen again, “I thought the waiting room was for competitors and family only?”

  The girl’s face adopted an awkward expression, one I wasn’t fully able to parse, that morphed into surprise when Bert’s arm wrapped itself around her shoulders. “Gee is family.” The boy proclaimed, his eyes locked on mine. “We’re actually siblings, it just never came up at school.”

  There was a lot to unpack there. Why had you never said anything? Why are you the same age? Why don’t you look anything alike? Why tell such a useless lie?

  Except, Bert’s eyes were filled only with conviction, even if the look of surprise on Gretchen’s face directly contradicted his statement.

  In the end, I did the only thing I could. "Okay," I replied with a shrug, "so what did you want to tell us, Gretchen?"

  The girl was still poleaxed for a few moments, before recovering herself. “Um, right, uh, like I said, I was doing a bit of research, checking in on who the strong competitors are. I know things have been easy so far for you guys, but another team’s been making short work of the other side of the bracket.” She pointed at a set of underlined names. “Alik Dunn and Mina Mowne. They both missed this year’s promotion tournament because they didn’t have enough total matches, but they’re undefeated in the normal season so far, so if they’d gotten started just a little bit earlier, they’d have been shoe-ins for sure. They might have even made it out of the tournament like you Alyssa.”

  I blinked a couple of times as Gretchen went on, elaborating on the pair’s partners and strategies. Apparently, Alik worked with a Fraxure, a pretty powerful Dragon-type and a relatively rare Pokémon on the circuit. Not to mention that it had already evolved, not something you usually saw in junior-league competitors unless they were going past a baby form.

  Mina, a trainee from the same private gym as Alik, was partnered with a Croagunk, which also guaranteed a certain baseline of skill.

  The Toxicroak enclaves were too proud to work with a trainer they deemed weak or ill-suited. They weren’t quite as picky as the Gardevoir choirs or Lucario rouses, but it was close.

  All of which meant our opponents in the finals, assuming the semis went well, wouldn’t be the pushovers the rest of the competition had been so far.

  And apparently, as if that wasn’t enough, the pair were actually properly making use of tag-tactics, swapping in at a moment’s notice to take advantage of openings and protect one another when needed.

  Croagunk could hit hard, and fast, the nimble Poison-type always fighting from a step ahead, while Fraxure was a patient, defensive fighter, who punished missteps from their opponents. Not a ton of direct synergy between their two styles, but they covered each other’s weaknesses well.

  Gretchen’s observations were varied and detailed, and the more she went into her scouting report, the more excited I got.

  Maybe this tournament wouldn’t be so boring after all.

  -

  The stadium was relatively small, as these things go. The venue this year was RealTech’s ‘Virtual Wonders Arena’, and the company had ‘generously’ allowed the use of the property without charge so long as they got to make a quick advertisement during the awards ceremony (and got to extort the spectators on ticket prices and concessions).

  Broadcast was coming from the Battle Sports Network; FSBC’s only real competition in the space. Not that there was any actual competition, based on what I’d heard. Apparently, the big guys just let BSN survive so that they weren’t accused of having a monopoly.

  Of course, that didn’t mean there weren’t spectators in the tens of thousands in the stands, and ten times that many people watching from home.

  The annual ‘Dojo Challenge’ tournament was a popular spectacle, a chance to identify the yearly up-and-comers who could be expected to make a break for the Green League in their second year.

  Or the aberrant competitors who’d done so in their first.

  There were always a few, though they mostly didn’t come from dojos or gyms.

  No, generally, those battlers were either from legacy families or were the apprentices of masters. Often, they were both of those things.

  Keasu. Largessi. Mathers. Mechry. Mowne.

  Madaka.

  Huge family-trees with hundreds of branches that could track their genealogies back to the exodus. These were the dynasties that dominated the competitive scene.

  Of course, not all high-level competitors came from these families.

  Only a little more than half of all Chroma League Masters traced their lineages to one of them or another.

  Or, if you read it conversely, less than fifty percent of all humans who’d ever been Ferrum’s strongest battle trainer didn’t come from one of the established dynasties.

  Sure, those statistics were skewed by the formative years of the league, when only the most elite could even afford to compete, but the point still stood.

  Apprentices and scions were still expected to be a cut above the rest, even in the modern day, and that was a big part of why the crowd was so riled up today.

  Most Dojo Challenges didn’t feature the youngest competitors from two dynastic families.

  I’d actually met Mina Mowne. The name hadn’t provoked a memory, but the girl’s face did. Unlike Bert and Gretchen, Mina hadn’t changed at all since I’d last seen her.

  Still just as punchable as last time.

  Her accompaniment was huge for his age. I would have guessed he was sixteen or seventeen, not three years younger than that. Alik wasn’t from one of the big families, but that was no reason to underestimate him, especially considering his record in the regular season.

  The four of us stood on opposite sides of the pitch, our partners between us. Pikachu prowled along the rubberized mat, staring daggers at the competition, while Champ affected an air of nonchalance, going through a well-practiced series of stretches.

  Mina’s Croagunk was eerily still, his eyes staring straight ahead of him, seemingly at nothing. Only the occasional blink informed the spectators that he was even still conscious.

  Alik’s Fraxure was worrying his claws along his tusks, producing a shrill ringing, like metal tearing along metal. His green scales gleamed under the stadium lights, making the pits and scars amongst them stand out all the more.

  The barriers surrounding us shimmered with energy, and suddenly, the simple grey plain in front of us transformed, glimmering electronic illusions flaring up as the Virtual Wonders Arena powered fully online. RealTech was known for their battlefield technology. Everything from barriers, to crash mats, to synergy stone casings. If it related to the arenas where Ferrum Battles took place, RealTech had a hand in it.

  And in-spite of its small size, the Virtual Wonders Arena was the company’s crown jewel. Always on the forefront of technological innovation, it felt like every year, they were rolling out some new feature or demonstration.

  Which made it all the more suspicious that so far, the arena hadn’t demonstrated any new capabilities. The same illusory accouterments to the battlefield and barrier patterns as last year.

  There was something up their sleeve, but honestly, I didn’t care that much. As long as it didn’t interfere with the battle, it didn’t much matter to me. The sparkling lights and visual effects playing across the arena could be distracting, for lesser battlers, but the spectacle didn’t make any difference for those of us who could really focus on what mattered.

  None of the trainers or Pokémon on the field now so much as flicked their eyes at the lightshow.

  “Trainer’s, don your equipment!” The announcer’s voice thundered from the loudspeakers, while his words flashed all across the battlefield and barriers, projected into three-dimensional space by the light projectors built into the arena.

  I slipped on my AR visor, settling it over my face. Sepia-tinted light filtered in through the headgear, and my breathing grew loud in my ears.

  “We’ve got a very special battle for you folks. Joining us in the red corner, they’ve taken all comers today and sent them packing. Please welcome back to the arena: Alyssa Madaka and Bertrand Crall!”

  Distantly, I registered the crowd, but they were far away, not part of our battle, not truly. They didn’t matter.

  “And in the blue corner, some fresh-faced newcomers with impeccable records, it’s Alik Dunn and Mina Mowne!”

  The announcer didn’t matter either. You could say he was part of the battle, that his MC’ing and refereeing could affect the momentum of the fight.

  I didn’t think so. No, the only ones that mattered were here, on the pitch. The four inside the barriers, and the four standing just outside of them.

  “Battlers. Are. YOU. READY!”

  Eight shouts of affirmation, battle cries to rouse the blood.

  “Then let’s synergize! AR on.”

  I flicked a switch, and felt my consciousness begin to spark and churn. The connection I shared with my partner, always present in the back of my mind, widened, like an opened circuit, power flowing between us. Crackling energy suffused us, and for a brief time, two were one.

  We were up first, The Champion had led the last battle. We stalked forwards, our forepaws tingling with static from the power running through the battlefield.

  Dirge stepped forwards to meet us, the Croagunk mobile for the first time since we’d seen him.

  Lights flashed. The speakers Murkrowed with noise and fanfare as the announcer screamed:. “The battle begins in THREE! TWO! ONE! START!”

  And we moved.

  Dirge tore forwards, their fingers glowing with some attack.

  We matched the advance, rushing across the pitch, electricity sparking in our cheeks.

  Months ago, when we’d started this journey, we might have wasted precious time considering what move our foes were using. Now, veterans of dozens of battles, we didn’t bother. All that mattered was not getting hit by it. We turned our forwards charge into a frontflip, bringing our tail sweeping down ahead of us, the yellow appendage gleaming with the strength of iron.

  Our foes had to abort their charge, catching the attack with crossed arms. They let out a gargling croak, and fired a deluge of poison from their swollen cheeks.

  Electricity coursed through our fur, lashing out and repelling the violet fluids as we leapt back, diverting our momentum with a brief Agility. We swept around our opponent, before rushing in from an off-angle.

  A bell chimed, and suddenly, a massive bulk was in the way. Crimson Tusks came to their partners defense, using their namesake to flip us up into the air.

  Distantly, one half of our union felt something, a phantom touch on our shoulder, unheard words in our ears.

  It didn’t matter. On the field, the pair of us conjured a flickering barrier, just long enough to deflect a beam of draconic energy and return to neutral. Ten seconds before our opponents could swap again, which meant ten seconds where we could punish them.

  The first two were spent closing, diving underneath Crimson Tusk’s sweeping jaws. The second three were spent laying a series of hits into the back of the titanic dragon’s legs, sending them sprawling to the luminescent mat. The beast turned their fall into a roll, using their tusks to stabilize their head as they swept about themselves with legs and tail.

  We didn’t fall for the bait, deflecting their tail with a quick swipe of our own and leaping over the tangle of glowing limbs. We grabbed ahold of the flailing dragon’s back, and let loose all of the power we’d charged up so far.

  Electricity coursed through us, running out of our cheeks, into our limbs, and then through the foes we were clutching. One second, two, three.

  They let loose a roar of pain as they thrashed about, trying to shake us off, but we were too fast, too nimble. Whichever way they rolled, we scurried the other, always clinging to them and letting power roil off of us. Four seconds, five. Six.

  A chiming bell, a half-second of confusion, and then pain, coursing through us as our syn was assaulted by three glowing fingers.

  We were flung free of Crimson Tusks, who took the opportunity to scramble for the edge of the battlefield. Dirge followed up their brutal sucker punch with a pummeling hammerfist that slammed us to the ground.

  We rolled desperately, using our tail to spring away just in time to avoid being smashed by the incoming Poison-type.

  We made to charge, but there was that sound again, a bell’s chime, in a slightly different tenor.

  A grey-skinned form hurtled past us, The Champion shoulder checking the incoming Dirge. The Poison-type dug their feet in, catching The Champion’s charge and lashing out with a glowing fist.

  The grey-skinned fighter ignored the hit, lashing out with a jab of his own, and the pair quickly devolved into a series of punches back and forth, both forfeiting any attempts at defense in favor of an overwhelming flurry of blows.

  The flare of anger we’d felt at the interruption faded in a moment. We’d been too focused, too confident in our ability to match both of our opponents. We weren’t here alone, and while we had a partner, we might as well make use of them.

  We bided our time, prowling around the edges of the battlefield, looking for an opening, The Crimson Tusk did the same, matching our paces from across the arena, and occasionally throwing their head back with a snort.

  The opportunity we were all waiting for appeared with a crash, two fists smashing into two cheeks and two Fighting-types reeling back from a brutal cross-counter.

  Two chimes shrieked almost simultaneously, and two forms tore forwards. Two charges diverted, both of them going from one target, to another. The azure, draconic energy flowing off Crimson Tusk’s oncoming form looked oh-so tempting to challenge directly, but why bother when we could punish them so much more thoroughly with guile?

  The charge was fast, to be sure, a brutal rush to take advantage of an opportunity, but it was no longer directed at its intended target. Instead of an off-balance opponent, a much more nimble foe took the attack.

  We screeched to a halt, digging our tail into the mat behind us to slow on a dime. Our forelimbs pushed, and we leapt back, just out of reach of the incoming tusk sweep. Our tail came up, gleaming iron crashing into the underside of our opponent’s jaw.

  The Dragon-type was flung back, front arms pushed up off the ground. A quick application of Psychic-energy saw us flashing a few meters away, the necessary distance to build up the momentum we needed. With a flash, we charged, lightning pouring off of us as our Volt Tackle plowed into the off-center dragon.

  The blow sent them sprawling, but our window to take advantage shut as that damned chime rang once more.

  This time though, we were ready, our tail lashing out to catch the incoming fist. Wide orange eyes stared at us for a frozen moment, caught in a rictus of shock and surprise.

  And then the real shocks hit, our cheek pouches emptying into the overextended Dirge.

  They staggered back with a croaking cry of pain and we pounced, our paws grasping the amphibian’s shoulders. Our tail glowed with power, and more importantly, weight, as we used its mass to give us the momentum we needed to turn a full three-hundred sixty degrees.

  Our paws remained locked around our foe, and their grip on the ground slipped before our grip on them. With a roar of exertion, we hurled the Poison-type through the air, sending them spiraling into the barrier, right next to our teammate.

  One half of our partnership clicked the little button they were holding. A chime rang out.

  And for the next six seconds, there was nothing to stop The Champion from pummeling Dirge into the barrier.

  -

  Cleaning up Crimson Tusks after that was too simple to bother remembering, the poor lumbering dragon overwhelmed by our advantage in numbers.

  The crowd roared, and we powered off the visor that the trainer wore, splitting one into two once more.

  I slipped the AR visor off with a sigh, sweat plastering my bangs to my forehead. That fight had almost gotten us fired up. Maybe if Bert and Champ had carried a little less of their own weight.

  For his part, my temporary teammate yanked his own visor off with a growl. His eyes flashed, as he looked at me. “You didn’t even need a tag partner to win this tournament, did you?” he accused, brow low and thunderous.

  I shrugged. “Probably not.”

  “Tell me for real Madaka, could you have beaten both of them at the same time? None of this tag Tauroshit. Could you have beaten them if they’d both come at you at once?”

  I thought back to the battle, considered it in my head for a couple of seconds. “I think so,” I finally said with a nod. “We didn’t even need to use a synergy burst to win this, so… yes, I think we could have taken them two versus one.”

  Bert looked at me for a few seconds, before he let out a disgusted scoff. “You’re a monster, you know that Madaka? You and that Pikachu of yours.”

  “No we’re not, Bert,” I refuted. “We’re winners.”

  He didn’t have anything to say to that.

  -

  “And welcome back to the stage, Alyssa Madaka, Bert Crall, and their partners Pikachu and Champ!”

  The crowd roared as the announcer heralded us in. The arena’s displays were powered on, showing off a gaudy light show that directed us down the pitch to a small podium that’d been set up. Alik and Mina were already there, standing in the second-place position.

  We climbed the podium, taking our places for the awards ceremony.

  I was mostly checked out at this point, none of this pageantry held any interest for me, but something managed to startle me out of my revelry.

  “That’s right,” the announcer reiterated, “RealTech, our gracious hosts for today, have generously decided to award the winning dojos an exciting new product. Both our first and second place participants will be walking away with this amazing new technology for their sponsors.”

  That declaration wasn’t what broke me out of my stupor, however. No, that honor belonged to the sight of my best friend’s father, stepping nervously out onto the pitch, wearing a huge backpack of some sort.

  “And joining us here to demonstrate this revolutionary product, we have the lead developer, Pern Alvida!”

  Fe’s dad waved to the crowd, his face looking rather constipated. It struck me that the expression was deeply familiar. It was the same look Fe wore whenever she hadn’t studied enough for a test.

  The nervous man tapped at his lapel a few times, and the sound of him clearing his throat came through the loudspeakers. “Oh, whoops, it’s definitely on. Hello everyone!” he rallied. “We at RealTech have been hard at work bringing you the future of battlefield development, and this year, we have something that we think is really going to wow you.”

  He knelt down, setting his backpack onto the pitch, and slowly unfolding it. As it turned out, he hadn't been wearing a backpack at all. Instead, it was some sort of device with straps on it so it could be carried and worn. “What you see here is going to change everything,” Pern’s words began coming out faster as he worked, gaining confidence as the machine took shape. “For too long, Ferrum Battles have been constrained by the necessity of specialized venues. Specific arenas and stadiums that can only handle so many matches in a day.”

  Gradually, what he was working on became clearer. It was a square box, painted matte black and with a gleaming hunk of crystal sticking out of the top. A synergy stone, shaped and cut to fit specifically in the device.

  “But what if that didn’t need to be the case anymore? What if Ferrum Battles could happen… anywhere? Safely, conveniently, and quickly?” The device began humming, the crystal pulsing with power. “Every street corner, every park, every plaza. Imagine if that could be the newest venue for your battle? Wouldn’t that change… everything?”

  The device’s four corners unfurled, laying flat on the ground. Pern scooped them up, walking a quick circuit and setting each of the poles on the ground, balanced on a small ‘foot.’ After he was done, he stepped out of the formation he’d made, and pushed a button on the humming device.

  “Well, imagine no longer,” he chuckled into his microphone, “because the vision I just shared with you, is, in fact, a reality, thanks to RealTech’s brand new BattlefieldGo.” The poles glowed, rippling momentarily with energy, before four shimmering barriers extended, running from one pole to another, forming an arena. Four meters tall, and five wide, it was a small battlefield, sure, but one set up in minutes, from a device you could wear like a backpack.

  “The synergy stones in the BattlefieldGo are rated for Chroma League competitors, and power barriers prepared for the same. They can be recharged, and eventually replaced, at very reasonable rates, and the whole package weighs no more than twenty kilos. With this, everything changes.”

  I could hear a roaring in my ears, and I wasn’t sure if it was the exultations of the crowd, or the beating of my heart. The world was shifting. No longer would people and Pokémon need to be near a great synergy stones or gaia spots to synergize. With this technology, they could do so anywhere, at any time. How would the region change? What did this mean for the coming days?

  After waiting a few seconds to let the cheering die down, Pern answered my question. “Now, all of Ferrum is a battlefield. Welcome to the future.”